


A Cost Too Great

by Snowblazehollyleafstar



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 11:05:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18799096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snowblazehollyleafstar/pseuds/Snowblazehollyleafstar
Summary: There is only one crucial ingredient missing from the mixture that will soon be forged into the Silmarils. But as Fëanor adds it to the cauldron, he has no idea how much it will cost him and his dæmon...





	A Cost Too Great

**Author's Note:**

> I have so many ideas for Silm/HDM crossovers - this is hopefully just the first of many! Really hope you like it and please review!

The mixture bubbled away in the huge cauldron that had previously been used for the arduous task of cooking meals for nine. It hadn’t been used for that purpose for many, many years. 

Its contents were a thick pale grey. In the dimness of the workroom at the back of the house, it emitted a pale, almost ghostly light. The mixture was bubbling slowly, air filling one part of it, which expanded and stretched out and then popped, returning to the centre of the cauldron.

Fëanor stirred it gently with a wooden rod, feeling out its consistency. This was the stage he had reached so many times before in the creation of his great work. When he tried to blow this mixture directly into the jewels he was determined to create, it had failed. Everything was there, but for such a powerful material, something new was needed. Some magic ingredient which would bind the gems together and forge something the likes of which the world had never seen.

And after years of trial and error, he finally knew exactly what was missing. His own blood. The jewels required human life to be bound together.

It was time to add it now, but he found himself hesitating, glancing across to his leopard-dæmon, Elen Naur.

She nodded, her green eyes sparkling like his in anticipation of what was to come.

“Do it,” she said. “We are ready.”

He returned her brief, curt nod and then drew a knife from his robe. Without the slightest hesitation, he slashed with its blade across the palm of his hand. He barely noticed the sharp pain it gave him. With his free hand, he returned the knife to where it had come from and then held his hand over the cauldron, watching as the blood dripped down his hand and into the mixture.

When it was done, he began the familiar process of kindling a fire hot enough to blow his mixture into the form of the gems. He was on safer ground here: he had made so many lesser jewels by now that he could have practically done this with his eyes shut.

As he ladled the mixture into the crucible and began to heat it, he heard an unearthly howl of pain. He knew, without even having to turn around, that it came from his dæmon.

But Fëanor still did not know what he had sacrificed for this. He thought, even as he felt her pain, that it was only temporary. That it would pass in time, once the gems were made, once they had adjusted. It was only a little blood, after all: what harm could it do?

So he continued with the familiar, almost comforting process, shutting his ears to Elen’s cries of agony, believing that it would pass. It did not.

Once it was done, once the perfect, exquisite Silmarils lay cooling in the crucible above the burnt-out fire until they would be cold enough to touch, he turned to his dæmon, who was lying on the ground, exhausted by her pain.

Fëanor ran one hand gently along her golden pelt, feeling her heart beating quickly, too quickly.

“What have we done?” she asked, and her voice was weak and feeble. “What have we done?”

He looked at her for a long moment, and then spoke the words he hated most of all, those he took as a personal challenge. “I don’t know,” he said, even as the horrible realisation began to dawn.

“We’ve torn ourselves apart,” she said. Though her voice was still quiet, it was filled with bitterness and anger – at herself, at him, at the gems, at everything that had led them to this point.

Fëanor stared at her. He did not fully understand, but she did.

“When you sacrificed your blood, you sacrificed me.”

“No,” he said, the word low-pitched and empty of all meaning or emotion. 

“Part of me is trapped forever in those cursed jewels,” she said. “If we go too far from them the pain will be unbearable. And if they are broken – if they are broken – “ She stopped. Her eyes glistened with tears. 

Fëanor watched as his dæmon’s chest rose and fell, rose and fell, in her efforts to prevent herself from succumbing to hysteria. He tried to block the terrible thoughts that were flooding into his own mind.

Finally, Elen gathered the strength to go on. “If they are broken,” she said, voice so quiet it was barely audible, “it will destroy me.”

Fëanor sucked in air silently. Then he closed his eyes and tilted his head upwards. He said nothing, knowing that the sheer horror of what had happened would overwhelm him if he made the slightest effort to put it into words.

Instead, he placed one hand gently on Elen’s fur and felt its perfect smooth, silky texture.

“We’re still together,” she said softly. “We’ll get through this.”

This wasn’t the normal way of their relationship. Normally it was Fëanor who led the way in new endeavours, and Elen who slowed him down, talked sense in him when he had gone too far or become too obsessed.

Now they already had gone far too far, and had never even noticed until it was much too late. Now there was no clear way through, to his eyes no way at all. But some things never changed. He still had his dæmon to advise him. For now.

“How?” he asked.

“We’ll test it. We can keep the jewels close, and I’ll learn to go further from them, and we’ll keep them safe forever.”

“Do we tell – “ He didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Nerdanel? His sons? The Valar?

She hesitated for a long moment, and then said: “No.”

There was no need to ask why not. It would do no good. Something told him that nothing could replace his ripped soul, not even the Valar, and there was no point in asking for sympathy or help. He had never needed those things before and was determined not to need them now.

They sat in silence for a long while, and then he got to his feet and moved slowly over to the crucible where his Silmarils lay cooling. Even through the horror of what had just happened, he couldn’t help feeling the joy of a craftsman in his work.

They were perfect. It was better than he had ever imagined, even in his wildest dreams, the way the flawless, miraculous material trapped and reflected and refracted the light of the Two Trees of Valinor, making it, if such a thing were possible, more perfect than it already was.

It was absolutely beautiful, but it also hurt just looking at them, reminding him of what else was trapped within them. 

They would learn to live with it. They would get through it. Maybe, despite everything, it would be worth it.

Elen staggered to her feet and padded slowly towards him. “It will be all right,” she told him, and he believed her.

They had no idea how wrong they were.


End file.
